This Little Babe - Portland Cello Project, Бенджамин Бриттен

Benjamin Britten

Miscellaneous

This Little Babe

This little bab so few days old

Is come to rifle Satan’s fold;

All hell doth at his presence quake

Though he himself for cold do shake;

For in this week unarmed wise

The gates of hell he will surprise

With tears he fights and wins the field

His naked breast stads for a shield

His battering shot are babish cries

His arrows looks of weeping eyes

His martial ensigns Cold and Need

And feeble flesh his warrior’s steed

His camp is pitched in a stall

His bulwark but a broken wall;

The crib his trench, haystalks his stakes

Of shepherds he his muster makes

And thus as sure his foe to wound

The angels' trumps a larum sound

My soul with Christ

Join thou in fight;

Stick to the tents

That he hath pight

Within his crib

Is surest ward;

This little Babe

Will by thy guard

If thou wilt foil thy

Foes with joy, then

Flit not from this

Heavenly boy!